No Choice At All
by Canon-Fire
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes know each other better than anybody else. Which is why Mycroft knows, that for Sherlock a choice between himself and John Watson, isn't really any kind of choice at all.
1. Chapter 1

**No Choice At All**

"You came alone." Sherlock observed. Mycroft's suit was immaculate, not even temporarily creased in the back and knees, suggesting a car journey.

"Of course." Mycroft replied, steely grey eyes betraying both determination and concern. Whatever Sherlock wanted, he could be reasonably certain he could and would, oblige, but he was undeniably anxious as to what the younger man had gotten himself into. For Sherlock to ask him for help, was near to unheard of.

"Your message rather worried me, as well you knew it would." He added, never one to bother denying irritation.

"I had no choice about that." Sherlock replied, stepping out of the shadows and facing his brother. Mycroft had stood in the middle of the room, assuming a stance of approachableness he evidently hoped would encourage Sherlock not to change his mind about asking him to meet him there. He hadn't even brought his umbrella.

Mycroft took in Sherlock's appearance and raised an eyebrow. "I…see." He spoke quietly. Sherlock looked momentarily alarmed, confirming Mycroft's deductions.

"How?" Sherlock demanded, eyes narrowing. He had been careful to give away nothing beyond the obvious, he was certain even Mycroft was not that clever.

"Most is obvious, you're aware you're giving away your fatigue, concern and the fact you've recently had to make a decision you didn't want to make." Mycroft replied, offering his statement as close to a question, to give Sherlock a chance to agree, that much was obvious.

"Generally looking tired, wearing yesterday's clothes is a sign of distraction, not something I'd do even if bored, frustrated or busy so I must be worried about something…" He glanced down at his shoes and smiled. "Slight scuff on one side of my left shoe, indicating I was pacing, but not paying attention. I only pace when trying to work something out and if it was for a case, I would not have been so absentminded as to walk into the fire place."

Mycroft gave a rather dark smile. "Excellent, Sherlock."

Sherlock's smirk disappeared instantly, as he remembered Mycroft knew far more than that.  
>"But the rest?"<p>

"There is only one scuff mark and no sign of any other abrasions. If you'd really been trying to think you'd have played your violin and the indent in your right thumb would be more pronounced, so while the decision was not one you wanted to make, it was also no real contest, it took you less than a minute to make it."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"You walked into your flat, you looked around to check you were alone. You went into the kitchen and finding Mrs Hudson there, pretended to be putting the kettle on. You returned from the kitchen having only held your hand over the kettle for a moment. You brushed your cuff in the steam, it's stained slightly yellow. You left the kitchen and looked out of your living room window, guesswork but you would have just left your informant and wanted to check they were gone. You then walked up and down in front of the fireplace, maybe twice, before you sent me the text that brought me here. Estimated time taken, under sixty seconds."

Mycroft smiled again when he'd finished. "But those are not general deductions, I couldn't have made them about anybody else." He admitted, with a shrug.

Sherlock nodded impassively. "That doesn't explain how you know why I'm here."

"No." Mycroft agreed. "But it's not so difficult a leap, is it? You asked me to meet you here, so you need something from me. You're worried, so your flatmate is almost certainly in danger. A decision made that quickly could only mean you had to choose to protect him or someone else and that it really wasn't too difficult a decision. Your many enemies, aren't to know that. If I was threatening you, I'd consider either John or myself to be obvious targets."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock offered, voice cold and indifferent, eyes not wavering from his brother's.

Mycroft nodded. "Don't be. It was the more sensible option of the two, whether or not that in any sense influenced your decision."

"You're not going to do anything?" Sherlock asked, curious. He had suspected, when Mycroft realised what he was there for, he would submit without complaint. He had assumed though, that he would at least make some token gesture towards controlling what Sherlock was about to do.

Mycroft considered him quietly for a moment.

"Do you have a plan, beyond the obvious, Sherlock?" He questioned, at length. "I'm not planning to impede you in any sense, no, but this will need to be convincing and no sign of self defence, will not be."

"I had thought of that." Sherlock snapped, annoyed his brother would think him so incompetent. Mycroft gave a rueful smile and Sherlock felt a remote shiver of discomfort. Sparing Sherlock's feelings was, after all, not likely to be high on Mycroft's list of considerations.  
>"I reported my phone missing to Lestrade earlier."<p>

Mycroft's eyes lit up. "Ah." He sighed softly. "How ludicrously simple. Ingenious, Sherlock, I must congratulate you."

In anyone else, it would sound like an attempt to placate his little brother, or at the very least, make him feel guilty. In Mycroft's case though, Sherlock knew the elder Holmes would be only too aware of the futility of both. There was nothing Sherlock did, that was not fully calculated to be simply the most pragmatic option available to him. Beyond that, he knew himself, there was beautifully simple genius in his plan.

If Sherlock's phone had been stolen, then someone else had messaged Mycroft and lured him to the abandoned warehouse. Mycroft was a genius, everybody knew it, but as Sherlock's phone had remained in his own keeping and Mycroft knew when he was talking to his brother, there had been no reason to suspect, but every reason for it to look like he'd been fooled. The plan relied entirely, but only, on Mycroft showing up at the warehouse, which he had done.

"Thank you." Sherlock replied, with sincerity. He knew after all, such compliments were high praise, from him.

Mycroft didn't move, as Sherlock closed the gap between them. He drew level with Mycroft and turned his head to the side, thinking. Mycroft returned his gaze, but stayed otherwise still. He did see Sherlock's hand make the minute movement required to shake a hidden object from his coat sleeve, into his grasp. He even surmised, in the split second he had before the needle plunged into his leg, what it was, but chose not to attempt to move.

This part of the plan had taken him by surprise, he supposed it was fair to admit, even if it's successful execution had been somewhat with his cooperation. He closed his eyes against the instant and overpowering exhaustion that pervaded his body. Unlike Sherlock, he did not have five years of addiction to have built up any kind of resistance. Sherlock's hand pressing down on his shoulder, decreased the time it took his muscles to give way and Mycroft to fall to his knees.

Determined, though he was, not to offer Sherlock any more obstacles than he had already been forced to navigate, Mycroft found it was physically impossible not to react to the realisation he could no longer control either his limbs or his vocal chords. Against his will, he clutched at Sherlock's sleeve, trying to speak, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to say. He needn't have worried. His hand brushed clumsily over the detective's arm, unable to retain his grip, while he made an incoherent groaning noise and nothing more. How thoroughly undignified, he thought.

"I'll take your congratulations as implied, on this part." Sherlock told him, removing his clawing arm with a perfunctory swipe and letting him collapse the rest of the way to the floor. "Because you _would_ have fought back and in all probability you'd have won, had you wanted to. But even you, the even greater Holmes, thinking you were meeting me, could have been caught unawares this way."

Mycroft couldn't prevent the shudder that rippled through him. He blamed the merciless, cold concrete underneath him, rather than think Sherlock capable of causing such a reaction.

Sherlock remained crouched next to him for a moment, watching until he'd succumbed entirely, lying still, eyes open and awake, but utterly unable to move. He leant down and spoke in Mycroft's ear, evidently aware it was hard to hear anything over the increasing fog in his brain.  
>"I know this particular drug is extremely effective. This way I don't have to cause a head injury to make it convincing. …It's also…easier for you, in the long run."<p>

With that, as though it in some way constituted reassurance or justification, Sherlock stood up and with barely a moment's hesitation, booted his brother in stomach with brutal force.

It didn't take long. Sherlock had seen and been involved in enough fights to know how to cause efficient damage, but equally, the difference between visibly unpleasant injuries and more life threatening ones. When he was finished, Mycroft's nose, lip and ears were bleeding, one of his cheeks rapidly swelling, several of his ribs broken and his arms and stomach badly bruised. Mycroft was still barely stirring, when Sherlock knelt beside him once more.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

He remembered the sound of cautious footsteps, followed by running feet. He was confused that it was a familiar voice that tried to break through the drug induced fog and drag him back to the waking world.

It was hard to tell how long Sherlock had been gone. He'd been taken by surprise, most unpleasantly, by just how frightening the physical effects of the drug had been. He'd made no move to stop his brother and he had no doubt he was right, that it had made the minutes to follow, much easier to take. It had of course, also given him no choice about taking it. The mental effects though, were considerably worse.

Sherlock didn't have superiors, while Mycroft did, technically, if not intellectually. Sherlock did not react well, to not being in control of those around him or his own decisions, whereas Mycroft was used to having mentally inferior suits control his decisions and ignore his advice. He had never, even once, surrendered control of his mind. He didn't even drink much, for fear it would damage his formidable brain. Sherlock had done so willingly and habitually, for five years of his life. Mycroft had never experienced anything quite so vile.

He was trying to concentrate on keeping track of the injuries Sherlock caused, which were, as expected, superficial but ugly or debilitating. Instead of allowing this cataloguing process to take place, along with his intent to remove any traces of evidence Sherlock had overlooked, his mind refused to stop slipping into utter chaos, like a prolonged scream only he could hear. It was pointless and damaging and yet, seemed to be all he was capable of, after a few seconds of Sherlock's necessary attack.

It didn't remove his awareness entirely, it just made what he wanted to be concentrating on, peripheral to what his abused mind felt he ought to know, like internal screaming at his lack of control. He was still conscious enough to be aware of Sherlock kneeling beside him, lifting his left arm and intertwining their fingers.

Somewhere in the repressed, still functioning part of his brain, he knew it was not a good sign. The much louder, more controlling part, didn't care what kind of a sign it was. The incapacitating drug in his system numbed his body, but it didn't stop him feeling the pain Sherlock inflicted, it just made him feel strangely removed from it, as though his body belonged to someone else. The worse the pain, the closer to his consciousness it seemed to reach. An almost coherent sentence passed through his mind, when he felt his ribs cracking under Sherlock's foot. _Christ on a bike, surely that's far enough…_

He stared at he and his brother's hands, bleary eyed and half blind with blood. It didn't really matter that Sherlock Holmes had never offered simple human comfort to anyone, or that Mycroft Holmes had never wanted or needed such dull and pedestrian solace. It was a distraction from the dull throbbing in his ribcage, the strange burning sensation in his chest and the mental din holding court in his mind.

He thought he saw Sherlock's eyes widen a fraction, as Mycroft used all the minimal remainder of his energy, squeezing the hand in his. Sherlock said something, but all Mycroft made out was something about a warning and 'convincing'. He rolled his head back, not wanting to listen, noise amplified and distorting unpleasantly in his head. He wasn't watching, as Sherlock made a sudden and viscious twisting movement, causing a series of cracking noises like gunshots to explode in his eardrums.

His hand dropped to his side, frissons of electricity shooting through his fingers. His back arched against the pain and Mycroft _screamed. _He felt something warm clamp over his mouth and cut off his agonised cry, leaving him writhing in pain, still frantic, but muted. The internal screaming grew louder and darkness began to obscure the edges of his vision. When the torturing noise reached it's crescendo, darkness closed in and Mycroft felt himself sinking.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

As far as he could make out, as the chaos started to recede, he had been joined by three, possibly four people. The authoritative sound of their voices suggested they were likely to be police.

"_Come on, Mycroft, wake up…" _One of the noises buzzing somewhere above him, formed into something he vaguely understood. The note of impatience, told Mycroft he'd been unintentionally ignoring his new company for some time. A strange rumbling in his chest turned out to be him starting to laugh, without his consent, at the idea he felt he'd been un-diplomatic, in being too unconscious to acknowledge the familiar voice trying to rouse him.

"Easy…" He soothed as Mycroft opened his eyes and found a blurry outline of a man leaning over him.  
>"There's an ambulance on the way, Mr Holmes, you're going to be fine."<p>

Mycroft snorted. Now he was awake again, his companion had gone all formal. Mycroft couldn't quite hold back a groan as he continued to try to comfort him.  
>"I've called your brother, is there anyone else you want me to contact?"<p>

"_No…_" He tried not to whimper, hoping at the very least, Sherlock had prepared for having to fake surprise and a believable level of total disinterest in the news. He remembered Sherlock telling him years before, in that delightedly victorious way of his, that what the law had gained, the stage had lost in him. Mycroft, while wondering who on his staff, Sherlock had convinced of what, had to agree. He was a brilliant actor, he supposed the news of his own assault on his brother, wouldn't have been too difficult a reaction for him.

"Mr Holmes…Mycroft? Can you hear me?…"

He could, but there was very little he could do about it. Though the fog on his brain had begun to recede, allowing him to think, if not entirely clearly, exhaustion stole over him. He heard the other man continue to try to keep him awake, but as the first, numbing effects of the drug began to disappear, so too did any relief from the pain in his ribs, head and hand, or his struggle to breathe. He gave in to the rising darkness willingly, confident that when he woke, his people would have stepped in and he'd be safely at home, where no one would ask any awkward questions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi folks, I was absolutely intrigued by the guesses made about what could have happened in part one. I'm not sure to what extent this clarifies, but all will be revealed one way or another, in the meantime all theories, postulations or views of any kind, are more than welcome. =)**

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><p>James Moriarty, was not the only criminal in London with a considerable grudge against Sherlock Holmes. He was one of a dozen, who had many others working for him. The total number of crooks who had had the misfortune of crossing his path, was many hundreds.<p>

Sherlock would not have lasted long, if he did not have his own network of informants to rely on. The man who came to him was not a friend, he didn't have those. He wasn't an acquaintance either, he was a crook. For the right price, he served as extremely effective security, to many of London's less than desirables.

"What is this about?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to attempt deductions in the dark. The man was standing in the shadow of an alleyway, while Sherlock leant against the wall of adjoining road, giving no indication he'd seen the other man. It was a busy day, no one was paying attention to the two men, one undetectable in the shadows, one seemingly standing alone. It made for an admirable meeting place for anyone wishing not to be overheard, Sherlock had to admit. Hiding in plain sight.

One of his homeless network had delivered a handwritten note, with an address, a time and the simple message 'you'll want to hear this'. Sherlock deduced from the haste with which the note was written, that the writer had feared he was being watched and from the fact he had not delivered it to Baker Street himself, that he would risk no association with Sherlock. The fact that despite both of these things, his note gave no indication he had a case for Sherlock, indicated it was not a hostile meeting. He had come armed, just in case, he was not so reckless as to assume, but he was confident his unnamed companion was in some sense, a friendly one.

"You've just finished working on a case, involving Sam Merridew." A low, soft male voice responded.

"Unsuccessful. No proof." Sherlock replied, hoping the other man was intelligent enough to know what he meant. Merridew had gotten away with his latest venture, while the man working for him had gone to prison. He was not about to discuss the details of the case in public, however difficult it would have been to overhear. There had of course, been more than enough proof to convince Sherlock, it was just that once he'd worked something out himself, it wasn't always possible to provide evidence that could be shown at a trial.

"Merridew wants to warn you off, in future." The voice told him, apparently understanding.

"Many do." Sherlock breezed, though he was intrigued, wondering who would go to such lengths to tell him the rather obvious fact, he'd annoyed a few criminals in his time.

"He has paid an agent to send you a message, via one of two targets."

Sherlock froze, alarm suddenly seizing him. By targets, he meant people, which gave him a very small number of possibilities if Merridew wanted people he was going to care about getting hurt. Even before he'd spoken again, he was running through a mental list of approximately five people, where they might be and what their chances of self defence were. He almost wasn't listening, when the voice continued.

"The agent has been instructed to make his point very clearly, but not to kill. He wants, to quote verbatim, '_for Holmes to look his victim in the eye and know they were maimed, for him. Make sure he won't meddle in my business again.' _He narrowed the target down to two, at his agent's discretion."

Sherlock's heart was thumping violently against his chest, anger burning in his veins. He clenched his fists behind his back, forcing himself to retain his neutral posture.  
>"Based on what?"<p>

"Expedience. One is a more difficult target, but to get to him would certainly show you how powerful a man you're dealing with. The other seems likely to hurt you the most."

"So, whichever of the two the agent judges to-" Sherlock trailed off, comprehension dawning. Who Merridew's target's were, was obvious given his companion's description. A powerful man and the man closest to Sherlock. His brother and his flatmate. What had taken longer to sink in, was that his informant had directly quoted Sam Merridew.

It took every last ounce of his iron will, not to turn as he spoke again, voice low and steely.  
>"You're the agent. You've been paid to attack one of them. If you-" Against his better judgement, Sherlock started to threaten, but he was cut off by a sharp, but calm and quiet interruption.<p>

"-I don't do personal grudges, but the man with the money doesn't know that." The voice replied evenly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, confusion starting to worm it's way between his clinical deductions. If this man was telling the truth, which Sherlock's instincts told him he was, then what did he want?  
>"Then why are you here?"<p>

"I could have turned Merridew down and he would have found someone else to do the job. As it is, I think if Merridew has an issue with you, then he should deal with you."

"How noble of you, but if you don't do it, someone else will, that's what you're here to tell me?" Sherlock growled.

"Mr Holmes, I don't waste time placating the victims of any crime I feel like committing. I'm going to tell you the facts and you can act as you see fit. Merridew will get this done, one way or another. At this moment in time, he thinks I'm going to do it, now I have no intention of. I will either return his payment and tell him it's not my area, or I won't, understand?"

Sherlock's mind spun so fast he was sure it must have been audible to the oblivious passers-by. He couldn't go to the police, they could only offer so much protection and if John and Mycroft were too heavily guarded, they would simply move on to others, or resort to more remote, more deadly methods. If he asked his mysterious companion to turn the job down, it would be given to someone else who would certainly carry it out. Sherlock couldn't know when, where, who, or how to prevent it.

Sherlock was confused though, he had said categorically, he didn't do personal grudges. He was not going to carry out his instructions. So what did he mean by, or he would not return the money? What was Sherlock supposed to understand, by that? Fear and dread rose like bile in his throat, as the implication became clear. One way or another, Merridew had to believe the job had been done. The only way he was going to believe that, was if it had been. Sherlock could either let his companion turn it down and some other thug do it, or he could allow the other man to take the credit, for something he himself had done.

"You want me, to hurt one of them, so that you'll be paid for doing it?" Sherlock asked, unable to even inject anger into his hollow voice.

A shallow laugh emanated from the shadows.  
>"If you want assurance it's not about money, you take it. I'm giving you the opportunity to control, just how badly hurt one of them gets. This is simple, Mr Holmes, either you do it, or someone else will. You have twenty four hours before I return the payment and wash my hands of this. Act before then, if you want to limit the damage."<p>

"Why?" Sherlock asked, audibly desperate as the shifting sound behind him indicated his informant was leaving.

There was a pause, during which Sherlock felt a sinking in his gut, telling him he knew he had no choice.  
>"A case of yours, led you to me years ago. You didn't hand me over to the police. If you had done, I'd probably be dead. Call it returning a favour."<p>

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

Sherlock barely registered his return to Baker Street. He could feel his body trembling, irritating him with it's utter pointlessness. Another day, he might have been curious as to which of the many people he'd deigned to take the law into his own hands with, could have been his informant. At that moment though, he couldn't care less. He wanted to be angry at being put in such a position, but if he hadn't been, he'd have been getting a call within the day, to say either his flatmate or his brother had been seriously injured.

He supposed calling the police _was_ an option. Mycroft had his own security, it couldn't be beyond the realms of police capability to protect one man from attack. At that point though, both were only in danger of assault, as a warning to Sherlock. Going to the police would give away his informant and make Merridew very angry. Sherlock knew what he was capable of. Somehow calling the police, felt a lot like a warrant for Merridew to call in a killer. Sooner or later, he would succeed and Sherlock couldn't stop him. His informant was right. He had one, single opportunity, for damage limitation, that was all.

He entered his flat in a daze, but had the presence of mind to stop as he reached the top of the stairs, to check to see if he was alone. A quick glance around showed him an empty room, but he moved through to the kitchen to be sure. He almost collided with Mrs Hudson, coming out. He made a sarcastic remark about her not being his housekeeper, while hovering around the kettle to look busy so she'd leave. She did so, tutting at him in her put-upon way, not noticing he left the kitchen and moved to the window even as she was closing the door behind her. Nothing there. He moved to the fireplace, glaring at his skull. It had to be done. Then which one? He turned and almost tripped over the fire grate. By the time he'd turned back once more, his phone was in his hand.

He text his brother a simple location and a request they meet, somewhere he knew Mycroft had taken John before. He knew the message would strike Mycroft as odd, but that couldn't be helped. He still didn't have a reply, when John came in for lunch and Sherlock borrowed his phone to call Lestrade. If Mycroft had suspected anything off, he'd have phoned.

John was worried by Sherlock's claim his phone had been stolen. It was a natural concern as such a thing was wholly unlikely, but it struck him as strangely funny John's confusion, was the only thing that held him up.

He waited for John to leave again, before slipping out of the flat. He was no longer shaking, no longer feeling violently sick. It was a simple solution and Mycroft would probably agree with him. He would catch Sam Merridew another day and when he did, he'd make him pay. In the meantime though, he knew what he had to do.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

"John?"

"Lestrade, it's Sherlock."

"Oh hello, everything alright?"

"No, my phone's been stolen."

"What? How?"

"I have no idea, I'm pretty sure it was in my pocket."

"Someone pick pocketed _you? _If you want me to investigate this Sherlock I'll only have one suspect, you could probably save us both some time and just ask your brother to give it back.

…Sherlock?"

"It wasn't Mycroft. I haven't seen him this week."

"…Alright, send me the details, I'll see what I can do."

Lestrade couldn't explain why Sherlock's missing phone was bothering him so much. Sherlock had sounded worried and it didn't take a genius to work out, there could be information on the consulting detective's phone that was worth worrying about. It was also possible Sherlock was just annoyed at someone managing to blindside him successfully enough to steal one of his most valuable tools.

Usually, a missing phone was not something any police officer investigated, let alone a detective inspector. He didn't think Sherlock would be satisfied with receiving a crime number in the mail. It was possible, of course, to trace any phone they had the number of, to the last location it had been switched on at. It was just not usually worth tax payers' money to bother.

Having pleaded the case to a very confused and agitated sergeant he made sure was not Donovan, Lestrade convinced himself at least, that finding Sherlock Holmes' phone could be considered a matter of national security. For the moment though, they'd consider it an important piece of evidence in an as yet unknown crime. It had to be someone of note who had successfully robbed Sherlock. It seemed unlikely to have been with friendly or benign intent.

He and one very cooperative sergeant, got hold of the phone company, traced Sherlock's number and had it tracked to a GPS signal. All the while they were following it, Lestrade waited for something to go wrong. It couldn't be this simple. Who would go to the effort of robbing Sherlock Holmes, who didn't know a mobile phone was that easy to trace?

He waited to find a dumped battery or a phone without a sim card, but the signal kept moving and the closer they got, the more it looked like it was still in the possession of a person, who seemed entirely unaware the police were closing in on them.

Lestrade and his sergeant tracked the phone signal to an abandoned warehouse, where it had stopped moving. The signal could only tell them it was somewhere in or immediately around the building. Lestrade circled the building once. There were three stories and a roof. There were no signs of life from inside, but the phone hadn't walked itself there and Lestrade could think of no innocent reason for whoever had, to be there. It was a hunch, but he instructed his sergeant to call for back up.

While the call was being made, Lestrade tried calling the number. It was unlikely the phone would be turned on, but as he couldn't do anything until back up arrived, it was worth a shot.

His sergeant turned abruptly, as the distant sound of a simple ringing tone reached them. It was faint, but Lestrade looked up immediately, locating the sound to the third story, where there were no windows, but open ledges all the way around. Nothing to prevent the sound reaching them.

"Sir, we should wait." The sergeant spoke, as Lestrade made a b-line for the concrete stairs.

"This place is deserted, and if it isn't, I want to see whoever is here before the cavalry give them enough warning to escape." He replied, tone brusque and not inviting argument.

Lestrade climbed the steps as quietly as he could, alert on every floor, for signs of life, though he was certain the ringing phone, had come from the third. There was nothing to be seen on the first or second, the building was eerily quiet, even just from the stairs where the nearby traffic was still audible, it deadly quiet inside.

An uneasy feeling had crept up on him, as he inched towards the concrete entrance to the third floor, which had at some point been a car park. It didn't make any sense. To successfully pickpocket Sherlock Holmes, that was hard to believe. To do so in order to either simply keep his phone, or to leave it in an abandoned warehouse, made no sense at all. He'd almost made up his mind, he was walking into a trap, when he spotted the body huddled on the floor in the middle of the room.

He strode forward, all sense of caution deserting him for an instant, until he stopped, slowing down and hovering several metres away from the still form.  
>"Hello?" He tried, either to attempt to uncover anyone else, lurking nearby, or test whether the other man was conscious.<p>

Receiving no response, he crept forward, still unconvinced he was not following a trail of breadcrumbs, but unable to stand by and do nothing. He was within a yard of the man, before red hair and familiar, angular, proud features came into view. His heart leapt to his mouth.

"Oh my God…" He breathed, making a sudden, hurried movement to the man's other side and dropping to his knees.

One hand searched for a pulse, while the other reached for his phone instinctively. Relief flooded over him as a faint, but steady pulse beat against his fingers.  
>"Mycroft?" He called, squeezing the elder Holmes' shoulder as he dialled he held the phone to his ear, calling for his sergeant.<p>

"Call an ambulance, then whatever back up arrive, bring them up here."

His sergeant sounded confused, but he didn't argue. Returning his attention to Mycroft, Lestrade grimaced as he assessed the other man's injuries. He was covered in blood, which at first seemed alarming, but on careful inspection, seemed to be mainly coming from his split lip and bleeding nose, rather than any more serious injuries. The way he was lying, half curled in on himself, suggested several blows to his midriff. Lestrade did a quick check, but could find no signs of any kind of weapon used, which seemed to be a positive sign. It was Mycroft's left hand, splayed gracelessly, bent and twisted at disturbing angles at his side, that caused Lestrade to wince on sight.

It was no accidental injury, that much was clear. The whole situation in fact, had an air of a deliberate message about it. If he'd found it hard to believe anyone could succeed in blindsiding Sherlock Holmes, it was beyond comprehension, for Mycroft Holmes to have been caught off guard. He had only met the man once, though he'd recognise him anywhere, with the striking facial resemblance between he and Sherlock. Sherlock could be difficult to deal with, but Mycroft was nothing short of scary.

Mycroft didn't stir, despite Lestrade's attempts to wake him. As he took his phone for the second time, knowing he had to talk to Sherlock before the ubiquitous detective somehow found out of his own accord, he'd forgotten all about the reported robbery that had brought him there. Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin, as Sherlock's phone rang from the floor beside Mycroft.

"Jesus…" He breathed, hand on his heart, utterly baffled as he reached for Sherlock's phone. Even with Mycroft, he couldn't believe he'd forgotten about it. It was a hunch, but even as he checked Sherlock's phone memory, he had a feeling he knew what he was going to find. His mind fogged in confusion, as he found the last message, sent to Mycroft, asking him to meet him in the warehouse, in which Lestrade had found the latter, beaten unconscious.

Swallowing back rising anxiety, Lestrade dialled John's number instead. For the time being, he had to get Mycroft to hospital and inform Sherlock of what had happened. He didn't want to think too hard about what might come after. He remembered all too vividly, what had happened the last time one of London's great criminals, had taken on the Holmes Brothers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hiya, sorry about the wait, I'm at Uni and very busy. Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>"John, are you at Baker Street? I'm looking for Sherlock."<p>

"I'm just getting in the door now. Did you find his phone then?" John asked, surprised, but relieved at the quick work of the Scotland Yard detective. He didn't really want to imagine what kind of information might be found on Sherlock's phone, but he trusted it was not safe for public viewing.

"Yeah I did, there's something else though, emergency, could you put him on?" Lestrade replied, unable to keep the pained note out of his voice.

John hesitated, about to ask what was going on, feeling a twinge of anxiety clench his chest. Sherlock looked up as he entered the living room, still holding his phone to his ear but frowning in silence. He held out his phone to Sherlock, thinking better of questioning and watching him instead.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, expression unchanging, but a slight twinge of concern in his voice.

John tried to listen in the pause, but could make nothing out of Lestrade's voice responding. A tiny frown line creased Sherlock's forehead.

…"Did you find my phone?" He asked when the line went quiet.

There was a short pause on the other end, before the unintelligible voice spoke again. Lestrade must have been about to end the conversation, as Sherlock interrupted him hurriedly. John's heart jumped as he saw a flash of something altogether less calm and cool as Sherlock always appeared, cross the detective's face.  
>"-Lestrade. …Where is he now?"<p>

Lestrade's voice was quieter suddenly, no more than a distant hum in Sherlock's phone, to John.

"Right." Sherlock murmured. "Half an hour."

Sherlock pressed the end call button, staring into space, while John looked on. He gave the detective a few seconds, before his patience ran out and he asked what was going on.

Sherlock remained staring into space, a look John was used to, as Sherlock concentrated on the tiny clues no one else noticed, in his mind's eye.

"Mycroft's been attacked, Lestrade wants me to meet him at Scotland Yard." Sherlock mumbled calmly.

John's heart gave a second jump, racing as he stared, confused and stunned.  
>"What? How? Is he okay?" John asked in amazement. Lestrade's call was supposed to be about Sherlock's phone, not his brother. John also didn't want to think about what kind of a man could successfully attack Mycroft Holmes. He was less a man, more an institution.<p>

"Lestrade said he thinks he will be." Sherlock replied, voice robotic, not looking at John. "I'm going out, I'll see you later."

John didn't try to stop Sherlock leaving, or attempt to get any more information out of him. The flat, monotone of his voice was familiar, the calm, deliberate stance also carefully controlled. John had seen it too many times to bother arguing. He watched Sherlock leave, mind jumbled between anxiety and frustration, not wanting to leave him alone but aware of the futility of trying to follow him. He left it about thirty seconds after Sherlock left, to call Lestrade and attempt to get answers himself.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

'_Myc, need to talk to you. Important. 12 Bolton Rd, level 3, 14:30. S' _

Lestrade had been staring at the text sent from Sherlock's phone for over ten minutes, without working out what was wrong with it. John had called, a few minutes after he'd spoken to Sherlock, but he'd ignored it. Dealing with Sherlock's worried flatmate, he would have to leave to the detective himself this time. He was more concerned with who had sent Mycroft Holmes the text that had nearly gotten him killed.

Mycroft had woken up just seconds after he finished talking to Sherlock, though he passed out again almost immediately after. It had been long enough for Lestrade to suspect he'd been drugged, another feat he would have considered near to impossible. The ambulance arrived a minute of so later and from there, Lestrade knew he could be far more useful to both of the Holmes brothers, from his post in Scotland Yard. Sherlock wouldn't be long in following, as he'd given Lestrade a maximum of thirty minutes to meet him there.

As he'd arrived at Scotland yard, he'd been given a message from the desk from his sergeant, to say someone called Anthea had taken over at the warehouse and that Mycroft had been taken to a private hospital somewhere. Lestrade fought the urge to roll his eyes. Mycroft was unconscious and he was still somehow running the show.

He sat at his desk, glaring at Sherlock's phone in frustration. Something was wrong. The ostensible problem stood out like a sore thumb, of course. If Sherlock ever bothered to address his brother by name, he filled it with open contempt. Theirs was not a relationship given to shortening of Christian names, nor would the thoroughly dignified elder Holmes, allow such a thing. Something was bothering Lestrade though, the more he looked at it. If _he _knew at a glance, it hadn't been written by Sherlock, Mycroft must certainly have known. So why had he followed the instructions and done so alone?

His frustrated musings were interrupted by the bang and clatter of his office door.

"Where's Mycroft?"

Lestrade jumped, head snapping up to his doorway as Sherlock entered without warning. Regaining his composure, Lestrade put Sherlock's phone down on the desk between them and gestured to the seat opposite him. On a normal day he'd have gone through the motions of asking how Sherlock had gotten to his office without him being warned. On a normal day, Sherlock would have ignored the offered seat. As Sherlock sat down, Lestrade frowned deeply.

"I was told he was taken to a private hospital. I imagine someone will inform you directly, rather than go through me. I called for an ambulance, his name entered a Government controlled system and his people took over from there." Lestrade answered honestly. He suspected Sherlock knew more about his brother's influence than he did, after all.

Sherlock's stare remained impassive, but Lestrade read an air of disdain in his eyes. The younger man seemed to be struggling with something. He went to speak once, but cut himself off and started again, before he managed to get a full sentence out.  
>"How is he?" He asked, staring down at the desk in front of him.<p>

Against the sombre mood of the day, Lestrade was filled with an ill timed urge to laugh. He knew Sherlock and Mycroft didn't get on, anyone who had ever met either of them knew it. It was also common knowledge within Sherlock's limited circle of people he could stand, that Mycroft went to extraordinary lengths to watch over his younger brother. For Sherlock it seemed despite this, admitting he was interested in whether Mycroft lived or died, was quite a challenge.

The memory of how he'd left the elder Holmes, wiped any hint of a smile from Lestrade's face.  
>"He was unconscious when I left him." He started, voice gentle, even if Sherlock would never admit to being truly worried. "It looked mostly superficial to me."<p>

Sherlock raised his head and met the DI's gaze.  
>"Mostly?"<p>

Lestrade fought back a shudder. "Yeah…Yeah it's pretty much just cuts and bruises, few broken ribs. …His left hand was badly broken though, it looked like whoever it was twisted his fingers right-"

Letsrade cut himself off at the sickened look on Sherlock's face.

"He's going to be fine, Sherlock." He offered, quietly.

Sherlock gave him a humourless smile and nodded.  
>"Undoubtedly. You called me here because of this, I presume?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to his phone.<p>

Lestrade took his abrupt change of subject to mean he was finished discussing his unfortunate brother's health. It was none of his business really, so he didn't say anything more. It was hard not to feel sorry for Mycroft though. Usually it would have been more or less impossible to do so, but that was when he was playing his role as scary, inscrutable, Government personified. Seeing a man beaten unconscious wasn't ever pleasant, but with Mycroft it was somehow worse, he wasn't supposed to get hurt. Who even knew he was made of human parts.

If it was horrible for him to witness, having only met the man once or twice, it must have been worse for Sherlock to hear, regardless of how determinedly he pretended not to care. Lestrade moved onto his official role without further comment.

"Yes. How long had your phone been missing, before you contacted me?"

"I don't know, I called you as soon as I noticed, which I wouldn't imagine could have been long after." Sherlock responded flatly.

"The thing is Sherlock, Mycroft being attacked would suggest the kind of Government muddy waters we don't get to know about, but your phone and the message sent to him point to something far less aloof." Lestrade explained, trying to point Sherlock in the direction of his own concern, without having to say it.

Sherlock have him a look that could wilt spring blossoms and Lestrade realised he'd misunderstood.  
>"I know you didn't send it." He clarified.<p>

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his deduction, but Lestrade chose to ignore it.  
>"I mean, that using your phone to ambush your brother, before leaving it with him, is more likely to be a message to you, than anything personal against Mycroft, don't you think?"<p>

"Comprising a list of suspects with people who have a grudge against me, won't narrow things down for you much." Sherlock answered dryly.

Lestrade shrugged, seeing no reason to mislead Sherlock in his motives for asking. He had to question him as protocol, but it didn't have to be a complete waste of time. "Maybe not, and I can't really ask for your help in this case, but I'd like to know we're on the same page, before I start."

If he didn't know better he'd have said Sherlock looked a little ashamed, as he realised Lestrade was asking for his opinion. The impression vanished almost instantly and he gave Lestrade a sharp, contemptuous look.  
>"Yes, well, so much for the obvious." He snapped, with thoroughly familiar impatience. Lestrade was careful to cover his relief at the sound.<br>"If you can't accept my help in this case I'll leave you to it." He added, standing up abruptly and pushing his chair back.

Lestrade didn't attempt to stop him, concern still churning in his stomach at the younger man's obvious vexation. He couldn't let Sherlock work on their case. Apart from anything else, he was a key witness and most likely the real target of Mycroft's attack. Sherlock would of course, take matters into his own hands and Lestrade couldn't stop him. Involving him in the official investigation though, smacked far too much of the early stages of Moriarty's war. He was relieved, if a little surprised, that Sherlock didn't try to argue with him.

Sherlock turned back as he reached the door.  
>"Lestrade…" He started, sounding wrong footed all of a sudden. Lestrade fought hard not to visibly squirm. The uncertainty was shut off suddenly, behind Sherlock's familiar mask.<br>"Let me know when I can have my phone back."

Lestrade breathed out heavily as the door closed behind him. He didn't like the case at all. Something felt very, very wrong and for the first time in his career, he was rather glad that a Mycroft-ordered hand from on high was very likely to take it off him, before long. Sherlock would be safely uninvolved or at the very least, protected by Big Brother. Until the man himself could be relied upon though, Lestrade thought he'd better return one of the many calls from Sherlock's fretting body guard and bring him up to speed.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

Mycroft had known, the moment his name was given to the police, his own people would be alerted and would take control of the situation, without him having to do anything. Taking action himself had been out of the question as he'd been unconscious, but it was comforting to know his office was just as organised and omniscient as he liked to imagine.

Avoiding a trip to some form of medical facility, was impossible. His hand needed resetting, apart from anything else, a more unpleasant experience he hoped never to encounter again. He'd been awake by that point, feeling much worse for wear and been told that they couldn't administer painkillers as he was already heavily drugged. Not nearly heavily enough, in Mycroft's opinion. It had taken every last ounce of his not inconsiderable will, to remain stoic during the post surgery cast setting of his hand and wrist, for which he'd been conscious.

Once it was finished, he instructed his enigmatic PA he would be in his own house within the hour, by any means necessary and that she would be advised to procure said means. He didn't particularly like threatening her, as she was his greatest asset, but then he knew he neither looked nor sounded particularly threatening at that moment. 'Anthea' wouldn't mind.

He knew within moments of returning to his own home, he would have superiors (in the technical sense) questioning from all corners. He wasn't concerned by that. He could assure them very truthfully, it was not a politically motivated attack. It looked exactly as it was meant to look; like he'd been used to send a message to his younger brother. That part, was much more of a concern. He'd been successful in his effort to scare the intensely private hospital staff with his sheer apathy towards his injuries and attack. His own staff were used to the same pretence, but at least a little bit surprised to find Mycroft genuinely unfazed, especially given his maimed hand and the clumsy impractical claw the plaster cast left him with.

Mycroft ignored the distant, gnawing irritant, whispering traitorous reminders he had no been nearly quite so cool, during the incident itself. Focusing on the more practical issue to hand, Mycroft knew he had to talk to his brother. He would, whether Sherlock wanted him to or not, be taking over whatever case had led to the morning's unpleasantness but first, he needed information only Sherlock had. He intended, beyond that point to ensure it got no further than himself, and Sherlock.

Lestrade would still have Sherlock's phone, it would certainly look somewhat suspicious for Mycroft to call or text him. Probably text. His throat was raw and painful, leading him to surmise and subsequently remember, he'd indulged in some thoroughly undignified screaming. He had been under the influence of some very unpleasant chemicals at the time, which he felt excused him. In ordinary circumstances it would have been a near impossible feat, to make him give away such levels of distress.

Some years previously, he had been subjected to sensory deprivation torture at the hands of some overzealous and ill informed counter terrorist intelligence agents, for several days. In the entire time he had not made a sound. Sherlock's attack, while not likely to be his fondest memory, wasn't so terrible by comparison. Even he though, couldn't always control his body's reaction. Drugged and struggling to breathe, apparently made having his little brother break his hand in nine places, (his doctor had informed him) too much to take quietly.

He shuddered slightly at the memory. A frisson of anger surged through his veins, partly at himself for his reaction, partly at Sherlock, for taking away his control, but mostly, at whoever had put his brother in such a position. Sherlock was a selfish, tactless, arrogant little git, but he was not cruel or spiteful. He used violence only when necessary to defend himself or the handful of people in the world he about. He made a mental note to give Sherlock a chance to find the man himself, under his watchful eye of course, before making his own move.

As he couldn't text Sherlock, the obvious method seemed to be to text John instead, but a text in such a situation, to an acquaintance, seemed inappropriate. His throat would just have to cope.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

John stared at his phone display, unexplained anxiety gripping his chest at the name. John knew Mycroft was seriously injured in hospital. Lestrade had called him to update him, explaining the elder Holmes had been unconscious when last he'd seen him. He also knew, that thinking one of the Holmes brothers had contacted him when it had not been possible, was what had put him there. Still, he knew he couldn't ignore it. It could be a clue as to who was messing with Sherlock.

"Hello?" He spoke hesitantly, raising the phone to his ear.

"Hello John." Mycroft responded, voice calm and tinged with an audible polite smile.

John's brow furrowed in confusion, mind racing.  
>"Mycroft …What's going on…Are you okay?" He asked, trepidation increasing at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He sounded exactly as he usually did, if slightly hoarse. Was it possible someone had got to him again? Was he being made to call him?<p>

"…I'm fine, John, thank you. I was just wanting to let Sherlock know I'm at home, as I assume the police have his phone." Mycroft replied. There was a short pause, before he continued. "…Are you quite alright, John?" He added, with the tone of a raised eyebrow.

John ignored the tone, as he was well practiced at doing.  
>"What? Yeah I'm fine, but why are you at home, I thought you were in hospital?" John demanded, starting to get annoyed at being asked such a question while he was very reasonably worried about kidnapping.<p>

"Yes I was, hence I wanted to let Sherlock know I am no longer. I imagine the police wanted him for questioning, has he returned?" Mycroft inquired, waving off his earlier stay in hospital as though he'd been out for a stroll.

"…No, not yet, but I spoke to Lestrade and he said Sherlock wanted to know where you were. I could phone him and tell him to pass on your message?" John offered wearily.

Clearly, Mycroft was not in immediate peril. He had seemed inhuman to John in the past, but his apparent ability to shake off what Lestrade had described as a vicious attack, in a morning, was strangely alienating even by his standards.

"Thank you John, that would be ideal." Mycroft replied, sounding at least, mostly sincere. "How is he?" He added, leaving John confused for a moment.

"How is who?"

"…Sherlock." The dry response sounded.

John frowned, relieved Mycroft couldn't see it, if suspicious he could hear or sense it.  
>"Oh, um, yeah, he seemed fine." John felt embarrassment rising as he spoke. Was it a little bit tactless, to tell Mycroft Sherlock hadn't really reacted at all, to the news he'd been attacked?<br>"Well, you know Sherlock." He added, realizing his efforts were somewhat clumsy.

A dry, hollow chuckle sounded in his ear and John gave an involuntary shudder.  
>"Oh yes. Thank you, John."<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock returned from Scotland Yard not long after Mycroft phoned. John had been about to tell him to call the scary old sod, when Sherlock's glazed, vacant expression gave him pause.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" He asked, alarmed suddenly.

Sherlock stopped by his skull and glanced at John.  
>"Me? I'm fine…" He murmured, sounded distracted. He seemed to sense John had not been satisfied and looked back to him once more. He cocked an eyebrow of sudden curiosity.<br>"Are you alright, John? Has something happened?"

He stepped away from the mantle piece towards John, voice making a sudden rise in panic. Confusion flooded John's brain. For the first time he thought he understood Sherlock's hard drive analogy. He was having a system's failure.

"I'm fine, Sherlock…" He started, entirely at a loss. "Nothing's happened _to me, _I'm worried about you…or your brother, really, what happened at the station?"

Sherlock looked relieved. Or at least, the sudden panic disappeared. Sherlock's neutral, inscrutable expression was as close to relief as John remembered seeing from him. The conversation with Mycroft returned to him, his discomfort at the elder Holmes asking after Sherlock, given he had barely reacted to the news. It appeared Mycroft's instinct of concern for his brother was well founded. John didn't have Sherlock's deductive skills, but the initial bewilderment at Sherlock's sudden panic, gave way to aching understanding. Sherlock knew his brother had been attacked. The knowledge made him scared other people who mattered, might also be in danger.

"Lestrade needed to ask me about my phone, it was found next to…Mycroft…there was a text from me asking him to meet me." Sherlock started to explain, though his mind was evidently elsewhere.

John felt rather ill, at the implication. Whoever had attacked Mycroft, had used Sherlock as bait. No wonder he'd been worried. Sherlock didn't need to like his brother, to be driven to unreasoning rage, at such a stunt. Worse than how angry and whatever the Sherlock version of scared was, Sherlock would be though, was the realisation Mycroft had been fooled. Every fibre of John's being, felt unwilling to believe it.

"Lestrade said Mycroft would be fine." Sherlock added, a statement so perfunctory John had to fight not to flinch. Sherlock spoke as though that element of his tale wasn't the important part.

"Yeah, I know, he called." John replied, shaking off his shuddering disgust and trying to remember even Sherlock, was probably somewhat stunned.

Sherlock spun round to face him, attention fully engaged suddenly.

"What?"

"Mycroft, phoned, just before you got back. He said he's fine and asked me to let you know he's at home. I was going to call Lestrade but…"

Sherlock frowned, his expression still unreadable.  
>"He's at home already?"<p>

"Yeah. Gave me a bit of a scare to be perfectly honest but then that's Mycroft." John offered with a weak smile.

Sherlock ignored his joke, but that was only fair as John was equally trying to ignore the note in Sherlock's voice that didn't seem overly pleased Mycroft was out of hospital already.

"John-" Sherlock cut him off before he could speak again, impatience in his voice. "I have to go…see Mycroft, I mean. Lestrade warned me off the case but…"

John grinned.  
>"You'll naturally be ignoring him and grilling your brother anyway."<p>

Sherlock smiled faintly, turning towards the door again.

"Sherlock." John called after him. Sherlock stopped, turning his head a fraction. "Lestrade has a point you know. Take care."

As Sherlock left, John realised he wasn't sure whether he meant of himself, or with Mycroft.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

Not many people visited Mycroft Holmes in his personal residence. It was one step more reclusive of him than his infamous club. While the Diogenes did not encourage speech, or indeed, in many of it's rooms, tolerate it, it was at least a form of social gathering. Mycroft's home in Pall Mall, rarely witnessed such pleasantries.

Sherlock himself had been there three times; twice at Mycroft's summons and as proved necessary; deliverance and once for an armed robbery. Mycroft had not been impressed. He recalled one of the stranger admonishments he'd given his impossible sibling, with some amusement.

_"Of what possible use do you imagine pointing a gun at me is Sherlock? I could have you picked up from here and dropped into the North Sea without lifting a finger, now stop displaying your amateurish foolhardiness, find whatever it is you want and get out. And tell Dr Watson to reconnect my alarms on the way out." _

Sherlock had, much to Mycroft's chagrin, seemed greatly pleased by his sudden turn to vulgar expression of his formidable power. The fact that Sherlock announced his first ever unsolicited and non-criminal visit with a simple ring of the doorbell, rather depressed him.

Anthea answered the door for him, as he was neither in a standing up mood, or able to unlock his front door with his mangled hand. Anthea did as instructed and let Sherlock in, before leaving herself. She directed Sherlock through to the bedroom, the only room in Mycroft's lodgings he had never seen before.

Sherlock's expression seemed to agree it was far out of character, as was the fact Mycroft didn't stand as he entered. He had even done so when Sherlock had kicked his door down and pointed a gun at his head. He walked slowly into Mycroft's bedroom, where his brother was sitting up in bed, with his laptop beside him, discarded just as Sherlock entered.

"Sherlock, forgive me, I'm…" Mycroft trailed off, not quite sure what the appropriate phrase would be for not wanting to stand up for fear he'd fall back down again.

"Right." Sherlock replied, despite his unfinished explanation. Sherlock's face was a mask of control as ever, but to Mycroft it wasn't difficult to read, so obvious a mirror of his own. Sherlock cast a critical eye over his appearance, reading the damage, possibly the repercussions. Mycroft was wearing a long sleeve t-shirt that covered his bruised upper body. The slight bulk over his abdomen showed his ribcage was bandaged, as the slight catch in his breath indicated several of his ribs were broken. His bottom lip was split and his left cheek swollen, yellow bruising already forming. Dark circles under his eyes indicated he'd have at least one black eye by morning. His gaze lingered over Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft glanced down at it himself. All but the tips of his index finger and thumb where encased in plaster of paris.  
>"Ugly, but rather well conceived I have to say." He commented airily.<p>

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to meet his.  
>"I am…I didn't want to do that." He murmured, staring at his hand again.<p>

Mycroft almost laughed, as even at that point, Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to apologise. It came as a strange kind of relief to him, to hear Sherlock's defiance held fast.  
>"I'm delighted to hear it. It's not a serious injury, but it is an unpleasant and gruesome looking one, which I assume was the point." He offered in frank assessment. Sherlock grimaced, but nodded, looking as though he wanted to say something else, but not quite knowing how. Mycroft would have reassured him he wasn't angry, if he'd thought it would help, but it was all too likely to result in Sherlock lashing out.<p>

"Sit down." Mycroft added, nodding to the bed as there were no chairs in the room. Sherlock didn't look pleased. His instinctive will to do the exact opposite to anything Mycroft asked of him, battled with the knowledge he had really stepped beyond the lines of sibling rivalry. It was clear he was also uncomfortable with so informal a gesture as sitting on his bed. Mycroft waited patiently, until Sherlock sighed and perched on the end of the bed, facing Mycroft.

"I thought I should explain." He spoke quietly.

"Yes, if you would. Aside from the obvious I'm at a loss." Mycroft admitted, without reluctance. It had always come much easier to Mycroft, than to Sherlock, to admit to the problems he couldn't work out.

"Tell me the obvious?" Sherlock requested, sounding weary. It was unusual for him to be willing to allow Mycroft to flex his deductive skills rather than just show off himself.

Mycroft obliged him without question.

"You needed to make it look like someone had attacked me, as a warning to you. The only possible motive I can think of for that would be if you suspect someone else was planning to do the same." Mycroft paused, leaning back against his headboard as talking made his ribs ache. "You were obviously panicked when you sent your message, so you must have proof you were right and that this threatened attack was imminent."

He paused again, unsure how to phrase his last theory, in a way that would not sound like a reproach.  
>"I think…I would imagine that just doing it yourself would be a rather dramatic reaction if I alone was threatened. You thought if someone didn't believe I'd been attacked, then it might be John instead. John is a guess of course, but an educated one."<p>

Sherlock had already confirmed all of his guesswork that afternoon, so he merely nodded to himself at the stages of deduction. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, his eyes flickered back and fourth as he catalogued through his hyper speed thoughts to a point to begin explaining from.  
>"I had a big case, a few weeks ago. A man went to prison, but not the one I was after, someone who worked for him took the blame."<p>

Mycroft nodded. It had taken some awkward phone calls to cover the damage of a fight Sherlock had gotten into with a suspect in the middle of it.  
>"Sam Merridew. Yes, we know about him." He spoke quietly. The "we" he used meant the Government, Sherlock would normally have expressed some disdain at the connection, but his expression remained blank.<p>

"He hired a hitman, to warn me off. The hitman was instructed to…'maim'…to use his own phrase, either you or John." Sherlock continued, eyes still on the ceiling.

Mycroft frowned. The moment he'd seen Sherlock that afternoon, he'd known he had contacted him on grave purpose. There had been more to his deductions than he'd explained at the time to Sherlock, but he was smart enough to work that out for himself. His chosen meeting place, the manner of his text, how he'd looked when he'd arrived, his lack of rudeness, sarcasm or insincere charm, had all been huge clues before any real deductive prowess was needed. He had assumed - he supposed really without any back up - that Sherlock had been directly threatened, to lead to such a rash course of action.

Sherlock went on, oblivious to Mycroft's confusion. "As it turned out though, the hired hand he chose was someone I've encountered before, though I'm not sure who yet. Apparently I kept him out of prison once. He told me what Merridew had planned and said he wouldn't do it, but that he'd give me 24 hours to make it look like he had done, rather than turn Merridew down."

"Because if he'd said no, Merridew would just have hired someone else." Mycroft interrupted, seeing the end before Sherlock got there. "A clever ally you made, somewhere along the lines then."

Sherlock glared at him. "If I stopped him going to prison it was because he didn't matter." He snapped, annoyed by the suggestion the man he'd quite wanted to kill that morning, was a friend of his. "I won't deny I was glad of his information though."

Mycroft shrugged, causing a protesting stab of pain through his midriff to his shoulder blade, making him really wish he hadn't.

"So-" He tried, voice slightly strained. "You agreed with your informant. Either you had to inflict some kind of convincingly unpleasant damage on me or John, or one of us would be much more seriously hurt."

"Of course I did, he was right." Sherlock replied, with a questioning look. "Why, do you not?"

Mycroft knew Sherlock well enough, to tread carefully.

"I quite understand your course of action and you did it well too, both convincing and superficial."

"But?" Sherlock prodded, a note of annoyance starting to creep into his voice.

Mycroft found himself once more fighting back the bizarre urge to laugh. The idea that Sherlock was now getting angry at _him, _given how they'd spent their respective afternoon's, was unreasonable even by Sherlock's standards. He didn't particularly want to point out the flaw he could see in Sherlock's chosen course, given it was a little late to take it back, but if Sherlock was going to push him, he was not too proud to admit his regret.

"I could have helped, if you'd just asked." He sighed, looking at Sherlock straight.

Sherlock's irritated look faded into surprise. Mycroft could see the mechanisms of his brilliant, yet strangely limited mind, whirring.

"I couldn't…it was too much of a risk." He replied, voice halting in his confusion. He _had _asked for help, when he'd asked Mycroft to meet him.

Mycroft lowered his gaze to the bed in front of him. Sherlock wasn't going to understand, without it being spelled out so clearly he'd get angry and Mycroft really didn't have the energy to fight with him.

"Of course." He agreed with a somewhat forced smile. "Merridew continues to be a threat, however." He went on, as though changing the subject. Really he was pointing out the flaw in Sherlock's plan, but he doubted the great detective would notice.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.  
>"Yes, but he won't be for much longer. He thinks he's warned me off, so I'll have to make sure I catch him next time before he sees any need to try again."<p>

Mycroft agreed this was probably wise, but it was not without it's own problems.  
>"That would necessitate waiting for him to commit another crime."<p>

Sherlock shrugged. "People like him always do."

He wasn't sure whether it was Sherlock's lack of tact with his blasé reply, or his own understanding of why he was so dismissive, but Mycroft saw red all of a sudden. It was one thing to accept Sherlock had moved to neutralise Merridew's threat, without thinking to check whether Mycroft could have helped him first. He'd done that, because the primary goal was to protect John Watson. That much, he understood. He was the much more sensible option, if Sherlock had to do the damage himself.

Mycroft, like Sherlock, had an almost machine-like detachment. He worked on logic alone. Logic said between such a mind and John's much more sympathetic mind, he would be the less effected by Sherlock's attack. He could appreciate the simple pragmatism, of Sherlock's decision. Mycroft and John had Sherlock and a distinct lack of other significant people to care about, in common. They both, however, were capable of seeing the intrinsic value of other people. Sherlock, it seemed, was not.

Mycroft said nothing, but his expression must have lost it's legendary stoicism, as Sherlock's gaze sharpened suddenly.  
>"What?" He demanded, immediately defensive.<p>

Mycroft hadn't planned to voice his thoughts, as he knew there was no point. He also knew Sherlock wouldn't let it drop and he did not feel inclined to lie to him.

"Merridew's crimes so far have all involved violence of some kind, one was murder." Mycroft explained, with patience bordering on miraculous. "I realise you were successful in your aims in intervening, this time. I doubt his next victim will agree that any harm perpetrated against people who aren't John Watson, is so easily dismissed."

Sherlock looked angry, but even at that point, Mycroft could see he was mostly irritated at the distraction, not offended by the implication. He was still, somehow, managing to be bored.  
>"I'll save much more harm by stopping Merridew. People get hurt everyday, Mycroft, I can't stop them and you don't care about them anymore than I do."<p>

Mycroft almost smiled at that. It was true, up to a point, but Sherlock was still missing his.  
>"On a sentimental level, that's certainly true. I do give their lives value, however, which if you're content to wait until Merridew strikes again, you don't."<p>

"It's is an academic and in this case, useless point!" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. "Me wanting to stop him now, given it isn't possible, is of no use to me or anyone else!"

"Sherlock-" Mycroft interrupted before he could get any further. Weariness was beginning to steal over him and he was not inclined to fall asleep with his brother still there. "I'm merely pointing out that this case, if you pursue it, will end badly for someone. Please, do me this one favour and leave it to my team."

Sherlock's eyes flashed in anger. It was a distinctly bizarre feeling to have him looking so furious while so domestically perched on Mycroft's bed.  
>"<em>No, <em>Mycroft. You can't just steal my case!" He protested, indignation ringing in every syllable.

Mycroft bit his tongue, hard, until he could trust it to remain civil.

"I'm not stealing anything, Sherlock, I'm informing you neither me nor my department are going to let Merridew go unchallenged until his next crime, it can't be done. You said yourself you can't do anything until he commits another crime. I don't intend to let that happen."

"If you bring him in now everyone working for him will disappear. I can catch all of them." Sherlock argued, obstinacy in his voice that told Mycroft he would ignore any counter argument.

He resisted the urge to point out that the last time Sherlock had resolved to catch a great criminal and all his merry men, he'd been forced to jump off a building.  
>"This is entirely out of my hands, Sherlock, my department already know about Sam Merridew, he has upped his game as far as they know to a direct attack on the Government-" He paused and gave a grim smile at that. "Just to warn you off. Do you honestly imagine they're going to sit back and wait for you to catch him?"<p>

Sherlock pouted. Mycroft wanted to described it as frustration or offence, but it was definitely sulking.

"So that's it? You hand down your decision from on high and my big case becomes your big case?" Sherlock demanded, petulant, but clearly angry too.

Mycroft did understand, his interest was far more personal than usual. He tried to stay his waning temper, battling against pain and fatigue to not shout at his brother.  
>"Sherlock, I'm not Scotland Yard. I know any not-listening to you I do is the act of a fool. It's not my case, it's something M15 are now looking into. Any help you can give <em>will <em>be passed on and considered." He offered. He didn't expect Sherlock to be pleased, but he did imagine under the circumstances, he'd know to back down.

Instead, Sherlock gave a most unattractive sneer.

"Why would I help you?" He snarled, eyes narrowing in disgust.

He meant why would he help the Government in a case going over his head and Mycroft knew it. He knew Sherlock was just annoyed he'd have the case taken out of his hands and yet be expected to still do the legwork. He was thinking only of the future of the case, not of it's progression so far. He didn't mean, why would he help Mycroft.

Weary and in a considerable amount of discomfort, Mycroft still couldn't help anger and resentment bubbling. He glanced down at his bandaged hand before fixing his brother with an icy stare.  
>"Why indeed. After all, between the two of us, clearly you really are the one who ought to be complaining." He commented, tone dripping with somewhat uncalled for sarcasm.<p>

Sherlock's eyes widened, a visible truss between surprise, anger and what might have been shame, in his expression. Mycroft lowered his glare immediately and examined the perfectly manicured nails of his uninjured hand.  
>"Your help would be appreciated." He spoke quietly, meeting Sherlock's stunned gaze again. "But it is certainly not mandatory."<p>

Sherlock's expression cleared of all emotion besides annoyance, features set in a hard, unyielding glower.  
>"Fine." He ground out, standing up with a jerky movement that caused a sharp stab of pain in Mycroft's ribs. Mycroft chewed the inside of his cheek and kept his expression stoic. "Do it your way, I'll do it mine and for the record, Mycroft, you aren't going to make me feel guilty for ensuring Merridew didn't leave you in intensive care."<p>

Mycroft sighed heavily as Sherlock stormed out. He hadn't handled that especially well. He didn't even have the energy to be offended by Sherlock's parting comment. He had not been trying to make him feel guilty, nor had Sherlock's aim been to stop _him _from ending up in intensive care, but he supposed it had been a vague possibility.

Sherlock just leaving was rather inconvenient. He had meant to talk to him about making sure the true perpetrator of Merridew's latest misdemeanour was not revealed. Sherlock wasn't likely to shout about it, but with the police and Mycroft's team investigating, there was a risk someone would work it out. He supposed it was unlikely enough for him to leave any plans on the subject until Sherlock was in a more approachable mood and he was in a better state to deal with him.

Until then, he couldn't simply sleep as he dearly wished to. There were a number of important phone calls he had to make, starting with one Detective Inspector Lestrade, who he seemed to remember had been with him when he'd briefly awoken in the warehouse. Lestrade was running the police investigation and Mycroft was sure the only reason he hadn't tried to contact him was that he'd assumed his own people were taking over. He was right of course, but if Sherlock was going to continue his own investigation, best to warn the Inspector and ensure he was keeping an eye on him.


	5. Chapter 5

221B was quiet when Sherlock returned, but he knew John was there. Sure enough, as soon as he closed the front door, John's bedroom door opened and his reliably concerned expression greeted Sherlock.

"How is he?" John asked, a required social nicety which didn't quite disguise his concern for Sherlock, ahead of his injured brother.

"Insufferable, as ever. His injuries are fairly minor but somewhat unpleasant. _He _is deigning to take over _my _case." Sherlock growled in response.

He wasn't actually angry, more just choosing to ignore Mycroft's plan entirely. Merridew had made it personal and Sherlock was going to make him pay, with or without Mycroft's intervention. He'd already known he'd have to circumnavigate Scotland Yard, what was M15 to add the pile?

John stared at him for a minute, before raising his hand and rubbing the bridge of his nose.  
>"You had a fight?" He asked, with a tone somewhere between mental exhaustion and parental disproval. "He could've been killed, you visit once and manage to have a fight?"<p>

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. John simply never failed to overlook the big picture.  
>"It wasn't a fight, it was a conversation. We disagree about who will be finding Sam Merridew and ensuring he doesn't escape prison this time."<p>

John's eyebrows rose, irritation disappearing in favour of curiosity.  
>"Merridew? You think he attacked Mycroft?" He asked, a note of indignant anger in his voice.<p>

Sherlock smiled to himself. Mycroft had never been John's favourite person, such a thing wasn't possible. Clearly, that didn't stop his fiercely loyal streak being offended by his attack. Sherlock felt a twinge of discomfort at the question all the same.  
>"No…" He replied, distractedly. "Merridew would never be so stupid. He hired someone else to do it."<p>

"To warn you to drop your case against him?" John asked, having reset to his default of concern.

Sherlock shook his head, trying not to let his impatience show.  
>"He's hardly the first, John. His threats make it <em>more <em>important to catch him, not less."

"Threats?" John asked, confused.

Sherlock tingled with displeasure at his slip up, but he knew his expression had betrayed nothing.  
>"Threats." He repeated, fixing John with his most wearied and superior look. "Do you not think there's a significant threat implied in attacking my brother?"<p>

John visibly bristled at his tone, but as always he shook it off, refocusing on Sherlock with an equally obstinate look.  
>"So, you would be annoyed at Mycroft for taking over the case, why, exactly?" He asked, as though talking to a stubborn teenager.<p>

"Because it's mine!" Sherlock snapped, before he could stop himself. He was immediately annoyed he'd vindicated John's condescension, but John just stared at him for a second before giving a snort of laughter. Sherlock felt an irresistible urge to join him.

If one thing had surprised him more than any other, about his ability to make a friend, it was how often John caused him to take his mind off a case, because they suddenly got the giggles. He couldn't remember a time it had been less appropriate.

"Mycroft is a pain in the neck, John-" Sherlock started, as their laughter subsided, atmosphere less tense and distant. "-But he has nothing to do with Merridew. I'm going to beat him, whether Mycroft tries to get there first or not."

John shook his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes telling Sherlock he thought he was feeling sentimental.  
>"I get that you want to get him back, but surely the important thing is stopping him, whoever does it?"<p>

Sherlock must have been visibly unconvinced, as John shrugged and tried a different tact.

"Mycroft was the one who got beaten up, Sherlock, couldn't you just give him this one?"

"Merridew just used him to get my attention, now he has it. Mycroft is in no fit state to take the case on himself. I won't be undermined by MI5." Sherlock responded, ice coloured eyes flashing.

John seemed to think better of arguing. John thought he was being selfish, but Sherlock didn't care. John, much to his relief, couldn't work out Merridew had done far worse than have his brother attacked. Sherlock and Mycroft shared the view, that caring could only be a disadvantage. They also both knew that it wasn't always possible to avoid. As such, Sherlock was going to ensure any criminal who decided to use it against him, would be taught a very swift lesson in return.

* * *

><p>Just as John emerged from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily the following morning, Sherlock called from the kitchen.<p>

"John, I'm going to check Mycroft hasn't gotten any further with Merridew, are you busy?"

John raised his eyebrows. His story, whilst not a total fabrication, was not all that convincing. Sherlock wasn't looking at him as he delivered his offhand request John accompany him to visit his brother. John recognised the signs of childish avoidance without difficulty.

"Not especially, why? Do you want me to come along? Just to check where he's up to?" John asked, feigning innocence. "It won't be him conducting the investigation will it, didn't you say he was in no fit state-"

"He'll have all the information I need." Sherlock interrupted, dismissing John's questioning with impatience. "Besides, you can tell me exactly what state he's in."

John smiled, no longer bothering to hide his belief there was more to Sherlock's motivation than sibling rivalry. "So you know how far with the case he's likely to get, obviously." He asked, with a smirk Sherlock was used to ignoring.

"Obviously." Sherlock agreed airily.

John grinned and said nothing more as they left the flat. Sherlock's front wouldn't have fooled one of the more dunderheaded Scotland Yarders. It would be a cold day in hell, apparently, before he would admit to feeling guilty or concerned about Mycroft.

* * *

><p>Mycroft's flat was silent, as Sherlock let them in. John couldn't hide his astonishment at the fact Sherlock had a key. Mycroft was either mad, or very daring. Sherlock smiled as he turned the lock, reading John's mind.<p>

"He knows not having a key wouldn't keep me out anyway-" Sherlock broke off suddenly as the pair stepped inside. The smile vanished from his face and stood still, alert as the quiet inside clearly alarmed him.

"Maybe he's asleep?" John whispered after a pause, wondering what was so unusual about not having noise greet him in Mycroft's home. From John's experience with the Diogenes Club, the man liked quiet.

"Hmm." Sherlock responded, closing the door behind him and leading John down a short hallway into an open plan sitting room.

It was considerably larger than 221B, but John had to admit he was surprised by the modesty of the place. It screamed very particular taste and it did look very stylish, but it was not ostentatious as John had expected. The sitting room led to another door Sherlock led him through, this one leading to an alcove with two bedrooms attached. Sherlock moved past the one nearest to them, the door was open and John saw the same simple yet elegant décor in there. The second door, farthest away from the front door as one could get in Mycroft's flat, as far as John could tell, was closed.

Sherlock strode over to it and rapped sharply on the varnished oak. The pair received no answer for a moment, while for the first time it occurred to John that Mycroft might simply not be there. He'd recovered quickly enough to have been out of hospital in a matter of hours, after all, it was surely possible he'd gone out.

Sherlock frowned, leaning against the door, trying to listen.

"Mycroft?" He called, managing to sound impatient, rather than puzzled as he clearly was. Or, John thought, God forbid, worried.

_"Sherlock? …It's open." _Came Mycroft's thoroughly astonished voice from inside.

Sherlock's frown deepened, but he turned the handle and entered as instructed. John ignored the thrill of resistance which seemed to tell him seeing Mycroft's bedroom was in some way obscene, like seeing the Queen's private chambers. Mycroft showed more of a personal touch in there than the rest of his flat, though his tastes were surprisingly gothic.

Mycroft himself, took John's mind off his fascination with his sudden insight into Mycroft's private world instantly. He was lying on his bed, fully dressed, though not to his usual ultra formal standards. He wore a t-shirt with an open shirt and what appeared to be black jeans. He was propped up by a pile of pillows, blinking in the manner of one who had just woken up. He was really only blinking in one eye, as the other was swollen almost shut. He had dark purple rings under both eyes, his bottom lip was split and one side of his face was swollen, blue and green.

"My apologies, I didn't hear you come in…" Mycroft spoke quietly, shifting to sit up properly. He sounded calm, but he looked only slightly less confused than Sherlock. John noticed a slight catch in his voice as he moved.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, brow still furrowed in confusion.

Mycroft let out a slight chuckle which set John's hackles rising.  
>"Well I was asleep." He replied. "I wasn't expecting visitors…" He added awkwardly.<p>

John hid a smirk at that, guessing Sherlock had been lying, when he'd claimed he and Mycroft hadn't had a fight.

"Where's your laptop?" Sherlock asked, which struck John as a rather strange question.

To John's bewilderment, Mycroft grimaced in agreement, with whatever unknown point Sherlock had made. He pointed across the room, where his laptop sat on his desk, not in use.

Sherlock's eyes widened.  
>"You mean you haven't done anything?" He demanded, voice filled with incredulity. "I expected you to be back at work, trying to undermine me by now." He commented bluntly, though the surprise in his voice held a note of displeasure.<p>

If Mycroft was annoyed by the pointed comment, he didn't show it.  
>"Well yes, so did I, but today hasn't quite gone that way I'm afraid." He replied. His tone retained it's usual impervious superiority, but Sherlock and John couldn't read his claim as anything other than admitting he was not up to work.<p>

And he wasn't, John could see. Apart from the effort it was taking him talk normally, he had an almost grey tinge to his face. The way he was sitting indicated he was in pain. His injured hand rested on the bed next to him, apparently not causing him any great concern, ugly though it was.

John didn't mention it, but Sherlock visibly paled.  
>"How many of your ribs are broken, Mycroft?" John asked quietly.<p>

Mycroft gave him a sharp look. He could feel Sherlock's staring from his side too.  
>"Three." Mycroft answered, eyebrows raised. "Why?"<p>

"You shouldn't have discharged yourself from hospital, your doctor hasn't treated them properly."

"Sorry, John, I'm not especially in the mood for mysterious deductions." Mycroft chided him. "What are you talking about, Doctor?"

John smiled at the courteously given title. Mycroft was conceding that _he _probably knew what he was talking about, even if Mycroft didn't. John knew if he showed even the slightest level of uncertainty, Mycroft would shift into impossibly aloof, politician mode and would no more permit John to examine him than he would willing admit to what was wrong. He shifted into assured doctor and rather high ranking soldier mode, without thinking.

"You're in pain." He asserted simply.

Mycroft laughed the breathy laugh again, making John cringe in sympathy.  
>"Somewhat, yes, but that is to be expected. No matter though, I'll-"<p>

"Let me take a look." John interrupted, before Mycroft could attempt to brush over it as though his ribs would heal themselves if commanded to with enough authority.

"That's really not necessary…" Mycroft began, a note of warning in his tone.

John was about to explain that yes, it was necessary, but Sherlock interrupted them both with a snort of derision. Despite his contempt, John could see genuine frustration in his expression. It had nothing to do with information Mycroft hadn't managed to gather.  
>"Really Mycroft, how would you know? Just let him play doctor for a minute." He sniped, managing to patronise both John and Mycroft.<p>

John didn't mind and Mycroft didn't argue, though he looked displeased. John ignored his unfriendly expression and moved over to the bed. Mycroft's displeasure did not lessen any when Sherlock trailed behind, looking curious.

"Can you sit on the edge of the bed, please?" John requested, ignoring Sherlock and trying to not laugh at how much he sound like a grumpy GP.

"When I said I wasn't expecting visitors, I should have more heavily implied I was not accepting them." Mycroft grumbled, wrapping his good arm around his midriff and holding his breath as he swung his legs off the bed to the floor.

John knew better than to try to help him. He didn't miss Sherlock's wide eyed gaze and unnaturally still stance, for the few seconds it took Mycroft to reposition himself.

"For the record…" John spoke , hoping to break the tense silence as he pressed on hand against Mycroft's lower back and one against the centre of his chest. "It _is _necessary, because wrongly treated broken ribs are really dangerous…and painful."

"That is assuming they were wrongly treated. Quickly treated and badly treated are not equivalent."

"No." John agreed, pressing down gently but causing a hiss of pain from Mycroft. "But a patient who isn't breathing properly does indicate one who hasn't been treated properly." He stated simply.

"Idiot." Sherlock snapped suddenly.

Mycroft glanced up in surprise, while John released his grip and half looked around at Sherlock too.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "That _is _an idiotic thing to do. Not only have you let an incompetent doctor treat you just so you could leave faster, you've insisted on being left alone at home despite the fact you can't even dress yourself properly." He sneered, indicating Mycroft's open shirt and, much to John's embarrassment, the open top on his jeans, where his broken left hand had lacked the dexterity to work with buttons.

Mycroft turned the colour of an overripe tomato. He directed his gaze somewhere between John's feet, as he murmured his feeble response.  
>"Anthea will be here later."<p>

Before Sherlock could say anything else to humiliate his brother, John turned and broke in.  
>"Sherlock, would you go and make us some tea, please?"<p>

Sherlock stared at him in amazement. Of course he wouldn't, he never made tea. He never did anything domestically useful unless it was a side effect of an experiment.

"Let me rephrase that." John answered his look, eyes narrowing in anger. Mycroft was, as Sherlock has stated, a bit of a pain in the neck, but even Sherlock knew not to kick a man when he was down and there was something wrong in seeing Mycroft so wrong footed. "Leave this room right now and return in about five minutes with a beverage shaped apology, or I'll tell Lestrade you're still pursuing this case and have him put you under protective house arrest."

Mycroft looked between Sherlock and John in surprise, taking in Sherlock's glare and John's steady gaze. His surprise changed to astonishment, as Sherlock turned and stomped from the room, not just to leave in a strop, but apparently to do as requested. He laughed lightly as Sherlock left, but his expression turned to a petulant pout as John closed the door behind him and turned back to Mycroft, rolling up his sleeves.

"Thank you, John, that ought to give him time to find any of my official documents he hasn't already stolen and copied." Mycroft snapped irritably.

John smothered a smile at how like Sherlock he looked when sulking.  
>"If you really minded that you'd stop him. Now, you might be the most important man I've ever said this to - take your shirt off."<p>

Mycroft blinked as John went back over his statement to check for innuendo, slightly too late to have not said it.  
>"Might I enquire how many men you've said it to, of any social rank?" Mycroft asked innocently.<p>

"Shut up and strip." John laughed..

"Well, I hope you were nicer to all the others." Mycroft muttered, using his good arm to pull his shirt down over his shoulders and drop it to the bed. Mycroft moved to pull his t-shirt off, but immediately stopped, eyes closing as he groaned in pain.

"Here-" John stopped him, holding one of his shoulders still and tugging his shirt up, manoeuvring with the least possible movement of his torso. Mycroft sat rigid, partly to avoid jarring his ribs anymore and partly in utter mortification at John man-handling him. John did his best to ignore Mycroft's death glare, albeit aimed at the floor.

Once Mycroft's t-shirt was discarded, John surveyed his taped chest with annoyance.  
>"Mycroft, whoever did this doesn't know what they're doing, you can't bind broken ribs that tightly."<p>

Mycroft met his gaze, seeming confused.  
>"Well it hurt much more before he did that."<p>

"Right." John snapped in frustration. "And you'd have been breathing much more before that too. Taping broken ribs was stopped years ago, the shallow breathing it causes could give you pneumonia, or a collapsed lung."

Mycroft didn't look nearly as shocked as he should have done, John felt. If he'd been mistreated by a medical professional, he'd offer more than a raised eyebrow.

"Painkillers, deal with the pain, the ribs just have to heal on their own." John went on, lowering his voice and managing to sound less like he was telling Mycroft off for someone else's mistake. "Here, let me redress this for you."

Mycroft acquiesced, but more John suspected, from exhaustion than willing. It was hard not to feel sorry for him, despite his aloofness. Sherlock seemed to be insisting he made an instant recovery, him being Mycroft and all. Despite the stupidity of this, Mycroft seemed most chagrined he could not oblige.

It took a few minutes for John to remove the taping around Mycroft's chest and replace it with a looser bandage. Mycroft didn't complain, though it obviously worsened the pain. John gave him a dose of painkillers, made him lie back against his headboard and told him to breathe deeply until they started to kick in. Mycroft looked as though he was contemplating having John removed from the premises. It didn't take long for the strain lines betraying Mycroft's discomfort to disappear and his laboured breathing to even out.

Sherlock returned to the room, carrying one mug which he put down on the sideboard without commenting on who it was for. Mycroft was pulling his jumper down over his new bandage.

"Better?" John asked, smirking.

"…Yes, much better, thank you…" He offered, sounding discomforted, but grateful.

John noted the pained pallor of his face, began to disappear almost immediately. Mycroft murmured something about his doctor supposing to be the best physician in the country and was John looking for a job. John laughed and blushed at the same time.  
>"I don't charge, especially not for Sherlock related services." He grinned in response.<p>

Mycroft's smile disappeared as he looked at John sharply.  
>"Sherlock related?" He asked. His voice was normal, but there was a hint of alarm in his expression. Sherlock said nothing, but he was glaring at Mycroft.<p>

"Well yeah…" John replied, confused. "You two…_are _related, aren't you?" He questioned, only half joking.

"Oh! Yes, I see." Mycroft spoke, looking relieved and rather embarrassed. Sherlock shook his head, but John was once again trying to hide his amusement. Mycroft had told John once he worried about Sherlock 'constantly'. John had assumed he being insincere and somehow threatening him. Sometimes he could see though, Mycroft had spoken the truth in his bizarre, scary way.

"John." Sherlock broke in suddenly. "Could you give us a minute, please?"

In normal circumstances, leaving the brothers alone wasn't a good idea. John knew though, however determined to pretend he didn't care he was, Sherlock had been shaken by Mycroft's attack. He obliged without protest.

"That wasn't very subtle, Mycroft." Sherlock griped once John was gone.

"What was I supposed to think?!" Mycroft protested, without enthusiasm.

"I'll settle for just _thinking, _before you blurt out something that stupid." Sherlock snarled. His expression softened slightly, as he seemed to remember Mycroft didn't owe him any favours.

"If John knew what really happened, he'd be in danger. If Merridew finds out, you both will." He added, managing a reproachful tone, over a mocking one.

Mycroft nodded, unfazed by Sherlock's admonishment. It had been rather dim of him.  
>"I know, I'm sorry."<p>

Sherlock gazed at him blankly. He was as unable to accept an apology as he was to give one.

"On the subject, I did arrange one or two, precautionary measures. John's surveillance level has gone up and I doctored all the press reports."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, premature agitation in his expression.  
>"Press reports? The press don't get to leak information on attacks on Government officials Mycroft, Merridew will know it's a blind!"<p>

Mycroft smiled. "I'm not an amateur, Sherlock, nor is this the first delicate incident I've had to influence the reporting of. It's on the Home Office internal web page if you want to check, I believe you have my password."

Sherlock took out his phone and began flicking away. Mycroft watched him, starting to feel rather giddy on the free flowing oxygen he hadn't known he'd been missing.

A paraphrased version of the home office official statement had appeared in a number of the Daily Papers. It gave no name, no mention of Mycroft's job, but detailed his injuries, where he'd been found and that Sherlock Holmes was thought to be helping with the investigation. Merridew would never suspect anything amiss. Mycroft saw Sherlock smirking in satisfaction, as he returned his phone to his pocket.

"Good, that should keep Merridew quiet for while."

"Yes, about Merridew though, Sherlock, I also asked Lestrade to report to me on anything relating to this." Mycroft told him. "He doesn't know who he's investigating and too much time spent around Scotland Yard by you, will make it obvious you haven't been warned off."

Sherlock gave him an irritated look.  
>"So you told Lestrade not to let me work with him?"<p>

"No, I told him to be careful. You'll pursue the case whatever I say. I think it's safer all round if I'm kept up to date." Mycroft explained simply.

"…You're not going to try to stop me?" Sherlock asked, sounding suspicious.

Mycroft gave him a weary smile. "What kind of a fool do you take me for, Sherlock?"

Sherlock actually looked guilty, at that. Mycroft rolled his eyes, certain he would never stop being surprised by Sherlock's version of emotions. There was no point feeling guilty for something you weren't going to stop doing. Besides, he should know better than to let an answer as manipulative as that one, make him feel bad. It would serve it's purpose though, Sherlock might at least not try to stop Mycroft intervening.

"So, what…?" Sherlock asked, testing the waters, questioning whether he was, albeit reluctantly, being given the green light to go after Merridew.

It made no difference, as Mycroft would be getting there first. At least though, he had Sherlock's attention.  
>"Just make sure you've covered your own tracks, Sherlock, I'll handle Lestrade and the press, you handle John." He started. A wide grin stretched across Sherlock's face, knowing he'd won. Mycroft ignored it and continued. "Remember, you will lose your advantage completely, if Merridew works out what happened. If you're going to do this, I know it's an alien concept to you, but you're going to have to be very, very careful."<p>

Sherlock watched Mycroft closely for a few seconds. He knew, that Mycroft would also be pursuing the case, but that was not important. Now he didn't have to compete with the might of the Government and unlike most people, he was able to use the omniscience of Big Brother to his advantage.

"Go back to sleep, Mycroft, you look like hell."

He strode over to the sideboard retrieved the mug of black, cinnamon coffee, placing it down on Mycroft's bedside without speaking. He turned a met Mycroft's eye before he left, coat swinging dramatically behind him.

Mycroft smiled.


End file.
